Biff Valentine and the Trouble at Tincastle Creek

Biff Valentine and the Trouble at Tincastle Creek

In the town of Tincastle Creek, on the south of the Moswold Bridge, sheriff Beuford Valentine crouched behind a barrel of questionable alcoholic sludge. The moon cast dusty shadows along the alley behind Strong Shot O'Mally's Saloon. The rumors said the Dark Thief haunted the place. So Valentine waited there, as patiently as he could, for the thief to emerge.

It would be Beuford's fifth attempt that month at capturing the thief. He hoped it would be the last. Minutes passed. His knees began to ache from his uncomfortable position, and he was growing dizzy from the smell of whatever was in that barrel. Inside the saloon, Beuford could hear the happy sounds of the regular crowd. Brawling. Yelling. Swearing. Smashing. And Sally Mae Steele at the old piano. Beuford longed to join them, but he had more important work that night. Tincastle Creek longed for an end to the chain of recent robberies.

Beuford began to suspect the Dark Thief knew of his presence, because he was certainly taking his time in showing up. At last, though, the sheriff's vigilance was rewarded by a sound. It was little more than a scratch, but it was something. He tensed as he heard footsteps down the alley, boots scraping in the dirt. His target approached, very slowly. When Beuford sensed the right moment he sprang up, pointed his trusty Dragonshot pistol at the suspect and yelled, "Halt!"

The figure before him halted in mid creep. In the shadows, Beuford could not identify the criminal. Valentine moved towards the figure very slowly, and he reached into his coat pocket for his sheriff's badge. He held it out as he approached. "Beuford Valentine, town sheriff" he said. "Call me Biff."

To his surprise, the figure relaxed and let out a long, raspy laugh. "No kiddin', Biff. Whatcha doing out here in the dark behind my Saloon?" Strong Shot O'Mally laughed again, and slapped his knee. "Quit pointin' that dungshooter at me!"

Biff lowered his Dragonshot and tucked it back into its holster on his belt. Through clenched teeth he replied, "It's called a Dragonshot, not a dungshooter, thank you very much."

O'Mally laughed again and waved his hand dismissively. "Shoots dung, don't it? Call it whatcha like, but if it shoots dung, it's a dungshooter."

Biff kicked the barrel of grog behind and regretted it. Jostling seemed to annoy the contents into emitting an even more disgusting stench than it had before. He couldn't really be angry with O'Mally, though he wanted to. The town would certainly be on O'Mally's side, not Biff's, if it came down to it. Most of the residents of Tincastle Creek hated Biff. Fortunately, Biff hated them also, and so they co-existed in mutual distaste.

O'Mally scratched his head and nodded towards the rear door of the saloon. "Why doncha come in for a drink er somethin'. There's no point you stayin' out here chasin' ghosts where you won't catch none."

Biff looked meaningfully at the night sky, as if this were all somehow the stars' fault. He noticed several constellations, prominent at this time of year. They stood out on the clear night.

He considered crouching back down behind the barrel and trying again, but he couldn't stand the stench much longer. Besides, O'Mally had made so much racket with his laughter that Biff imagined his thief would aim to avoid the place for the rest of the night. Biff sighed and shrugged. "Yeah, why not," he said.

O'Mally swung open the back door and admitted Biff. It was warm inside the saloon, though dim and smoky. Through the haze, Biff could see the usual group of three sitting at the table in the far corner playing a perpetual game of poker. They played it every night, and whenever one of them ran out of money they leapt at each other, tooth and nail, and finally parted company, each leaving with the same wad of cash and chips they'd had before.

Biff made his way to a bar stool where he could surreptitiously watch Sally Mae as she played the piano, and, sometimes, sang. Sally Mae dressed the part of a cowboy, and managed to pull it off well enough. She wore long jodhpurs, boots with spurs, a shirt, and a vest that looked as though it contained dragon silk thread.

When Sally Mae got bored of a song she would sit on the piano bench facing the rest of the saloon and play with her hands behind her back. This got almost no reaction from the listeners. Sally Mae was nothing more than the background- she was the atmosphere itself, seen but not noticed. Except Biff noticed her.

O'Mally smacked a drink on the bar in front of Biff, bringing him back to reality. "That'll restore ya properly," he said with a nod. He leaned on the counter and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "You hear what the Dark Thief's M.O. is?"

Biff stared at his drink in disgust. It was a lime green colour, and it bubbled suspiciously. "No," he said, feeling distracted.

"Rarities, oddbobs, anything expensive, especially anything magical and expensive," O'Mally said. He narrowed his eyes slightly and then added, "Hey, shouldn't you know that, bein' the sheriff and all?"

"Oh, right," Biff said. He stirred his drink tentatively with his pinky finger. "I know all that," he said. He lifted the foul-looking beverage to his lips and braved a sip. It was warm and had an unidentifiable taste, but it was not as terrible as he had expected, which was something.

From the corner of his eye, Biff could see Sally Mae who was now standing on the piano bench dancing and playing the piano purely by enchantment. "We should stop calling him the Dark Thief," Biff commented.

"Why?" O'Mally asked, as he polished a shot glass with a shabby old rag. "Comes out in the dark mostly, don't he?"

Biff shrugged, turning to watch Sally Mae stepping over the piano keys and causing a great cacophony. It actually garnered a few glances. Biff gaped for a moment before replying, "It's a stupid title, anyway."

"Can't say I agree, but you'll suit yourself, I'm sure," O'Mally replied, and he shook his head. He became distracted by another customer who was more interested in what the old barman had to say, so Biff was more or less abandoned with his green drink.

Just then, Bob Junior took a seat beside Biff. They looked at each other and each curled their upper lips in obvious disdain. Bob Junior was a menace, but only to people he didn't like. Biff was most certainly on BJ's list of most hated.

"What do you think you're doing," Biff said in a hiss.

BJ leaned in close and blew smoke into Biff's face. "Gettin' to you," BJ replied. BJ dressed in all black, and it was rumoured he owned multiple vests made of dragon hide. It was illegal to kill a dragon for its hide. But dragon slaying went deeper than simply being illegal. It indicated a despicable, even heinous personality of the sort serial murderers had. Even owning something like that was disgusting.

"Well it ain't workin'" Biff said and swallowed another sip of his green beverage. He took a mouthful that was too large and it burned his throat and made his eyes water.

BJ burst out laughing. "See you around, cowboy." Bob Junior tapped the rest of his cigarette into Biff's drink and swaggered across the room to harass Sally Mae Steele. Biff growled. Only BJ could irritate him so much in such a short period of time.

A restlessness overtook Biff, and he scraped his stool back abruptly. He adjusted his ten-gallon hat and moved for the swinging doors at the front of the saloon.

What Biff failed to notice, distracted as he was with thoughts of the Dark Thief and his numerous failed attempts at catching him, was that the instant his palms pressed against the swinging doors, Sally Mae leapt off her piano bench, paused to give BJ a few sharp, well chosen words, and followed Biff silently.

In the night air, on the dilapidated porch before Strong Shot's Saloon, Biff leaned against the rail and looked at the moon. At this time of night the cacti sang their Texas ballads and the sage grass, infamous for raucous midnight parties, told lewd jokes to each other. Across the road, Biff could see Bob Senior's violet-eyed jersey cow chewing her cud and occasionally reprimanding the sage grass for particularly offensive comments.

Biff heard the doors swish softly behind him and felt Sally Mae's presence before he saw her. She sauntered next to him and draped herself artfully over the rail. "Nice night," she said breathily.

Biff disagreed, but said, "Indeed. Should a lady be hearing the sage talk tonight?" Biff looked at Sally Mae as she laughed. He glanced at her ring-covered fingers, every one of them flashy and over-priced in appearance. He wondered how she could play the piano with her fingers so weighted, but then he remembered that she mostly used enchantments anyway.

"I don't know that I'm much of a lady," she said. Sally Mae pulled herself up and perched on the porch rail, swinging her feet back and forth.

At risk of sounding sour, Biff did not reply. He was still busy kicking himself over earlier-- catching Strong Shot O'Mally was no great accomplishment. Soon the town would be losing hope in his abilities to uphold the law. It could mean the end of his sheriff's badge, or worse.

"How'd you manage to shake off that .. creep" Biff inquired, resisting the urge to say something more colourful.

"Oh him? He's no problem. Just flatter his ego a little," said Sally Mae, still doing her best to gain Biff's full attention. She waggled her perfumed fingers in front of Biff's face. "Hello? What's troubling you tonight?" she asked.

"Sally Mae," Biff began. He hesitated, struggling to find the right words to say next. He wanted to say them right. Comparing her to the moon seemed too much like bad poetry. There had to be something better. He turned his face to the moon as if asking it for alternate guidance. "It's my job to keep this town ... and you ... safe. But I haven't been doing very well lately. We're still haunted by the Dark Thief. What if his next move were more than just jewels and talismans? What if it were a life?"

Sally Mae tilted her head, still swinging her legs slowly back and forth. She smiled and pressed a hand softly to Biff's cheek. "I doubt he'd go that far," she said.

"How do you know?" Biff asked.

"I just know," she replied. And as quickly and softly as she had come, she hopped back off the porch rail and sauntered back through the doors of Strong Shot O'Mally's Saloon.

Biff watched her go. Something didn't seem quite right with the entire evening. Something told him he needed to get back to the office and go to bed. His boots thunked as he made his way down the porch steps, and they crunched as he crossed the road. He stepped on a clump of sage, and the sage swore. The jersey cow lowed plaintively, and a breeze seemed to sweep up out of nowhere.

Biff Valentine unlatched the door to the sheriff's office and stepped into the dark interior. The only light came from the little puffs of fire from his pride of miniature dragons. He had three. They came from halfway around the world and were considered quite rare. Biff had received them all as gifts. To carry one in his pocket would have brought him both luck and light, but he couldn't bear to shove them into his coat every morning. He was sure they would stifle, or burn the pocket right off. So instead he kept them in a little aquarium atop his desk.

He sat down at his desk and settled into some late-night paperwork. His little dragons came up to the glass to peer at what he was doing. They speculated amongst themselves as to what Biff wrote, as none of them could read any English. The little silvery-purple one, more straight-forward than the others, asked Biff, "Any word on the Dark Thief?"

The other two dragons nodded their graceful little heads, clearly in approval of this question.

"None yet," Biff said and set down his quill. "I thought I caught him earlier but it was only Strong Shot creeping around his own back alley."

"Are you sure O'Mally wasn't the thief?" asked the silver-purple one again. He had clearly been adopted as spokesperson for the evening. The other two dragons nodded their heads in agreement again.

Biff shook his head. "No, it couldn't be him. Someone stole his glowlight remember? He wouldn't steal something from himself."

"Unless," piped up the pink speckled dragon. She coughed delicately into her tiny clawed hand and continued, "excuse me for interrupting of course ... Unless he wanted to throw you off his trail?" The silver-purple dragon ooohed and the jet black one said "aha!" at her words.

Biff sighed and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "It's not Strong Shot," he said more firmly.

"What about Bob?" asked the jet dragon.

"Which Bob? Senior, Junior, or Intermediate?" Biff asked.

"Any of them," said the jet dragon.

"All of them!" cried the pink speckled dragon.

"I dunno. Maybe Junior. I could certainly picture him as the thief," said Biff. He glanced at the old wooden clock on his desk. It was getting late. Thinking about the thief was giving him a headache. He had no leads, and he didn't know that he would ever find one. Feeling somewhat despairing, Biff wished his dragons goodnight and shuffled his way up the stairs to bed.

As Biff lay in his bed under mounds of multi-coloured blankets, he imagined he heard the soft sliding of a window, shuffling across the floor boards, and tiny screaming. He was thinking about this thief thing far too much, he decided, and he rolled over and went to sleep.

The following morning, as the birds sang a happy song outside his window, Biff began his daily routine as he always did. He shaved and washed his face, he glanced in the mirror and put his hair in order, he rubbed at his teeth very briefly, and then he jammed his ten-gallon hat on his head, got dressed, and made his way downstairs.

It was time to open the sheriff's office for the morning. Biff was just about to unlatch the door when something unusual caught his eye. It was the gentle tapping of a window shutter in the morning breeze. Biff always latched the shutters at night. But here was one open and tapping against the wooden walls of the office.

"Careless," Biff muttered to himself. He moved to open all the shutters. It was daylight now and opening them up was always the next step. He opened the windows and unlatched the door and moved to his desk to say his customary goodmorning to his miniature dragons who were always happy to see him.

But the dragons were gone. Biff remembered the tiny screaming of the night before. He had thought he had been dreaming, but he knew now he could not have been. Sometimes the dragons went for a fly around the building. Biff tried calling to them, but there was no answer.

"Dammit!" Biff shouted and slammed his fist onto his desk, rattling the empty aquarium and all the tiny pieces of pink, green and blue gravel that covered the bottom of it. The Dark Thief had struck again! But this time he had gone too far. Stealing those dragons right under the sheriff's nose. What would the town think of him? There was only one thing to do, and that was to catch the thief before it was too late. Before all the residents of Tincastle Creek rose up against him and pelted him with sticks and bottles of Strong Shot's worst brews.

Biff skipped his morning coffee and he pulled on a pair of boots with extra sharp silver spurs. He intended to get moving immediately, but just as he yanked open the front door Sally Mae Steele stood in the frame, blocking his exit. Biff stumbled awkwardly. He had built up too much momentum opening the door and stopping abruptly would have been impossible.

"Hello," Sally Mae drawled, looking impossibly fresh of face in the early morning. Her eyes were shadowed by the brim of her white hat tipped forward slightly. "And where are you goin' in such a hurry at this hour?" she asked and her lips stretched into a cherry-red smirk.

Biff could hardly make up his mind between pushing Sally Mae aside and storming out of the office as he had first intended, or shouting a curse of frustration. As he could not make up his mind he simply opened and shut his mouth several times, as if suddenly unsure how to use his vocal cords.

Sally Mae laughed softly and pushed a carefully manicured hand against Biff's chest. He backed into his desk as she moved forward. "Well, it looks like I caught you just in time," Sally Mae said. She was dressed in a long green dress with a soft leather vest cinched snugly around her waist.

"No cowboy boots today?" Biff asked. It was unusual to see Sally Mae in a dress.

"I need your help," she said, ignoring Biff's comment.

"I can't help you right now!" Biff replied. "Someone has stolen my dragons," he added in more of a hiss. He gestured towards the empty aquarium then held his finger to his lips to indicate he didn't want her to go around shouting about the fact that the sheriff himself had been robbed.

Sally Mae gasped dramatically and covered her mouth with her hand. "My! Your poor little dragons. Oh those poor precious little things... who could steal such creatures... does that not bring bad luck?"

Biff straightened his collar and cleared his throat. "Well, that is probably just a superstition, not to worry. However, the mini dragons are known to be very loyal to their masters. I don't expect the thief will have them long."

Sally Mae breathed a deep sigh. "Oooh that is such a relief!" she said.

Biff grunted. It was a relief, somehow, to share the news with someone. Especially with Sally Mae Steele who seemed to have an appropriately satisfying reaction to everything. Some of his anger subsided, though he still had the strong impulse to go out and strangle the Dark Thief.

"You know," said Sally Mae, slowly.

Biff watched her.

"There may be a way to end this," she said.

Biff laughed. "Yes. I'll find the guy who did this and wring his neck! Or whatever's left of it, considering my dragons will probably burn as much of him as they can!" He felt both villainous and triumphant as he said this.

"Oh no!" Sally Mae said, her eyes wide like saucers. "I had something more ... shall we say ... classy, in mind." She smirked and it ruined the effect of the saucer eyes of a moment before.

"All right, well, spit it out," Biff said, feeling impatient. He doubted Sally Mae had a suggestion which would satisfy him, and every moment he spent inside chatting with her was another moment the Dark Thief went free. Biff imagined the thief getting further and further away every second.

Sally Mae, almost a head shorter than Biff despite the fact that she was a tall woman, stood on her tip toes and leaned on Biff's shoulder. Biff caught a glimpse of a silver spur as the hem of her dress pulled briefly up over her heels. So she had not forgone the cowboy boots, after all. That was curious.

"A shoot out," Sally Mae said simply and watched Biff's face for a reaction.

"A shoot out!" Biff repeated, aghast. "What kind of plan is that! I thought you said you had something civilized in mind, miss Steele," Biff said. He shook his head. Shoot outs were for the towns on the railway tracks, the towns that were running over with murderers and horse thieves, not towns with a single dark menace. Surely one man against one sheriff would not be so impossible. Besides, Biff wasn't all that handy with his Dragonshot pistol these days. He didn't like to admit it, because he was the Law, after all, but his aim had been off ever since a day long ago back in Woksfold Valley when his shoulder had had a run in with a flaming cactus. Flaming Cacti had a poison that could never fully be purged, so Biff's arm had always been a little on the slow side since that day. He had tried switching hands at one point, but his aim was even worse with his left hand.

"A shoot out is civilized," Sally Mae said. "And it's the only way you'll ever catch him, Biff Valentine. A real man would never turn down a fair duel. Put some posters up around town. Say just after sundown tonight. You'll be on this side near your home base, and the thief'll come out from the Moswold Bridge, I expect. I say 10 paces and draw. If you shoot the thief, the thief either dies or leaves town, and if the thief shoots you..."

"I know how a shoot out works," Biff said, interrupting quickly. The fact was, the Dark Thief had a very good chance of killing him, and Biff hadn't banked on dying just then. He had hoped, for instance, to make a proposal to Sally Mae Steele at some point, maybe have a little family. But maybe the woman was right. The promise of a fair duel would draw out the thief. It was an unwritten law that everyone, even thieves followed. No one ignored a challenge.

"You're not scared are you?" Sally Mae drawled, almost mockingly.

"Pah!" Biff said. He spit on the ground to show how fearless he was.

"Good," Sally Mae said with a smile. "You put those posters up. I'll be watching from Strong Shot's saloon at sundown." She kissed Biff on the cheek and left the office swiftly. Biff could hear the faint jingling of her silver spurs as she walked.

The minute she was out of sight, Biff panicked. There was a lot to do before that evening, and the first thing would have to be making up the posters. But Biff didn't want to so much as touch a quill. He felt almost nervous enough to throw up, although the possibility existed that that was more due to the sludge barrel the night before, or even his bubbling green drink. Mind you, he wouldn't want to admit to anyone that he suffered after effects from a single sip of alcohol, regardless of how strong O'Mally's brews could be.

Biff had the strongest urge to consult his dragons on what to do next, but of course they weren't there. If nothing else he should do this for them, and maybe a lot for Sally Mae Steele. He had to concede that a challenge might draw out the thief. It might even have been Biff's only option. If Sally Mae hadn't arrived at his door in such a timely manner, Biff might have been halfway to the nearest railway by that time, looking for a nameless shadow, a man who was little more than a ghost by all counts. It was time to bring the ghost into the light. Or in this case, the sunset.

He scrawled words across a large marble-coloured scroll and he addressed it to the Dark Thief. Biff could only assume the Dark Thief knew he was called the Dark Thief, otherwise the poster would be useless. After sketching out the details Biff rolled up the parchment and tucked it under his arm. He would find the Wise Woman who lived in a collapsing hut on the outskirts of town.

Everyone in Tincastle Creek referred to the place as Tumbleweed Pond. Of course, the 'pond' was more of a small depression in the ground filled with cracked earth that occasionally got a bit muddy in the springtime. The wind whipped every tumbleweed in a hundred miles into the place near the pond. Biff had to kick his way through a sea of them to get to the Wise Woman's front door. Actually, there was no longer a door in place. The Wise Woman had placed rows of scarves across the top of the door to serve as a divider between her house and the great outdoors.

At a loss for a place to knock, Biff cleared his throat instead and called out, "Um, excuse me mam. If you're in there, I've a favour to ask."

"I don't do favours," the woman called from inside. "But come in anyway and we'll see what we can do."

Biff removed his hat, which seemed an appropriate thing to do, and went inside. Many people expected the Wise Woman to look a thousand and three years old, but instead she was extremely youthful in appearance. Everyone could remember her being around since Tincastle Creek was formed so that the woman was impossibly old and impossibly young all at once. Bob Intermediate had once declared that the Wise Woman had died several times and merely been replaced, like a dead pet guinea pig, by a mysterious person interested, it would seem, in Tincastle Creek's welfare.

The Wise Woman had long dark hair that hung in soft curls down her back. She stood with her back to the door and seemed to be making pancakes. However, she was not having much luck. Biff saw a stack of burnt saucer-shapes on the counter. Surely she wasn't planning on eating those ones. A tumbleweed rolled in the door after Biff and he tried to kick it back out before the Wise Woman noticed.

"Just leave it," she said. "It's a losing battle. Sit down, have a pancake."

"Er...no thank you. I just ate," Biff lied, though he took a chair at the little table which was propped up on one side by a small tumbleweed.

"Do not judge by outward appearance," the woman said icily and she set a plate of the burnt pancakes in front of Biff with some syrup. She might have commanded him to eat again but she didn't need to-- the look in her green eyes was enough.

Biff ate the pancakes. They didn't taste awful, which surprised him, though perhaps it should not have.

"You have something for me?" the Wise Woman asked as she sat down at the table.

Was she a Seer like the townfolk had always suspected? How else could she have known that? Biff gaped and it took him a few moments to recover enough to hand her the scroll. The Wise Woman read it quickly and nodded her head. "And what would you like my help with?"

"Wow! You knew I needed help AND you knew I brought that scroll! How do you do it?" Biff asked, amazed.

"Don't be an idiot," the Wise Woman replied. "First of all, it does not take a great genius to notice that no one comes to visit me from Tincastle Creek unless they want something. Furthermore, I have absolutely no clue what this scroll is for, other than the obvious, so I asked you what you want with it out of politeness rather than out of divine inspiration."

"Oh," Biff said, feeling a little let down. He remembered, though, that he had a reason for all of this, so he continued, "I was hoping you could make a few copies of it for me."

"Why, don't you have a secretary or a deputy?" the Wise Woman said, dripping sarcasm. "Very well, I will make you copies for 7 silver spurs and you must eat all the pancakes on your plate."

Biff looked at his plate and sighed. "All right, it's a deal," he said.

The Wise Woman smiled, though it did not brighten her countenance in the slightest. Instead it seemed to artificially stretch her features and made her eyes seem particularly acidic. She told Biff to wait where he was and she disappeared into another little room with the scroll. Biff wished he could have seen her work her magic. He had heard she could work enchantments in the blink of an eye. But he wondered whether those rumors were as true as the ones about her powers of prediction.

When the Wise Woman returned to the room she held five copies of the poster and she handed them all to Biff in exchange for the agreed-upon payment. Biff was about to make a quick exit when the Wise Woman stopped him with her words.

"I warn you," she said, "that you may not like to know who the Dark Thief really is. It may, I think, be quite painful."

"That's nonsense!" Biff exclaimed. "This thief stole my dragons! He will pay!"

"Suit yourself. No one ever listens to me anyway. Just call me Kassandra."

Biff looked puzzled for a moment but he decided the Wise Woman was simply saying something wise, so he carried on his way. He set the posters up all across town and afterwards all there was to do was wait for sundown.

Biff could not decide what to wear. He wanted to wear something that would be reasonable to die in, but not something that suggested he hadn't a chance at all. After settling on the exact same outfit he wore every day, Biff made his way out back behind his office to do some target practice. He didn't use his Dragonshot in practice as the dung pellets were far too valuable to waste on cardboard cutouts. Instead he used an old Lightning Ray that sent tiny lightning-shaped blasts at the target and, when the Lightning Ray worked properly, stunned the victim completely. By the end of the practice session the cardboard targets sizzled pleasantly, surrounded in a glow of electricity left over from the impacts.

At last sundown arrived and Biff stood on mainstreet. At first glance, Tincastle Creek seemed completely deserted. But Biff knew that behind every door and window stood a townsman watching and waiting with bated breath for the Dark Thief to show himself. Biff's palms broke into a cold sweat. A cool breeze made the swinging doors of Strong Shot O'Mally's Saloon creak eerily. Biff hoped Sally Mae was watching as she'd promised.

Minutes passed like eternity, and Biff began to think this had been a mistake. The Dark Thief was not coming. The town would still be vulnerable to the Dark Thief's attacks and Biff's precious dragons would spend their lives burning the seams out of the Thief's pockets. But just as Biff was about to despair he heard the tell-tale sound of jingling spurs. The figure of the thief appeared at last, the sun directly behind him and turning him into a silhouette, as if the universe itself worked to cloak the thief.

Biff frowned. The thief looked a lot smaller than he had imagined. But he supposed that made sense. A thief had to be slight and graceful to avoid detection. Biff waited for the thief to speak but he did not, so Biff had to carry on himself.

"So it's down to this," Biff said, with as much malice as he could muster.

The thief just stood there, a silent shadow.

"At last you will pay for your crimes!" Biff's voice seemed extraordinarily loud in the empty town street.

The thief stood still as a statue.

"But first, you will return my dragons," Biff demanded. He didn't want to shoot one by accident. He felt the dragon dung pellets would not affect them, but he couldn't be sure and he didn't want to take the chance. They were very little dragons, after all.

The thief shook his head. Did he even have a voice?

Biff shifted awkwardly. He didn't want to prolong this any more than he had to. He cleared his throat. "Well, all right then. We meet in the middle, then do ten paces back, then draw. On the count of three," Biff said.

"Three." The doors of Strong Shot O'Mally's creaked.

"Two." A clump of sage grass whispered its first rude comment of the evening.

"One." The jersey cow lowed very softly in the distance.

Biff Valentine, sheriff, and the Dark Thief moved toward each other. There was nothing but the sounds of their jangling spurs, matched exactly step for step, the boot of one falling at exactly the same time as the other man. With each step the Dark Thief's sunset shadow left him a little more exposed. At one step Biff could make out gloved hands. At two he could make out the colours on the thief's vest-- green dragon skin. The thief had a strangely narrow waist. At three steps Biff could see the thief's hat was black and tipped down over one eye, casting half the face in shadow. As the two men met in the middle of the street, Biff saw bright red, painted lips, and he caught a strangely familiar scent.

"Ten paces," Biff said. The air buzzed with tension and both Biff and the thief turned to begin their paces.

With each step apart Biff's dread grew.

One. Nothing but the sounds of those spurs.

Two. He couldn't quite place the scent.

Three. Face in shadow.

Four. Meet at sundown. Exactly then.

Five. He'll come from the Moswold Bridge. How had Sally Mae known that?

Six. The Moswold Bridge lay west. The lighting was perfect at sundown for shadows.

Seven. The thief was a woman.

Eight. Biff stepped on a sage clump.

Nine. The Wise Woman had known it.

Ten. He would regret this.

"Draw," Biff said. Biff's hand flew to his Dragonshot just as the Dark Thief's hand flew to her own weapon. He knew who the thief was. He pulled the trigger and the dung pellets shot straight and true toward's the Dark Thief's heart. The Dark Thief let out a scream as her dragonskin vest sizzled in contact with the dung. She fell to the ground in a heap.

Biff ran to the side of Sally Mae Steele. He looked in horror as Sally Mae reached up, with that little smirk at her lips, to remove the hat that shadowed her face. "I told you this would end it," she said. The dragon dung pellets had begun to work their way through the vest that acted as a shield, and Biff tried to remove it.

"No," Sally Mae said, shaking her head as best she could.

Biff felt numb. It couldn't be Sally Mae. He'd shot Sally Mae Steele! Faintly he heard the sound of tiny dragon cheers as his three dragons emerged from a pocket on Sally Mae's vest. Of course. The one thing they could not burn with their tiny mouths was the hide of their own kind. Sally Mae would have known that.

"Why?" Biff managed to croak.

Already Sally Mae's eyelids had begun to close. "Ask someone wise," she said.